


Social Security for Off-Duty Super Soldiers

by theTabularium



Series: The Guide to Care and Housing of Temporally Displaced Super Soldiers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assassination, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theTabularium/pseuds/theTabularium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple introduction to the 'Do's' and 'Don'ts' of Social Security for off-duty temporally displaced military personnel- Composed collaboratively by N. Romanov/S. Wilson.</p>
<p>Natasha, Clint, Sam and Bucky educate the good Captain in the finer points of modern security methods, with the help of an unfortunate French hitman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Social Security for Off-Duty Super Soldiers

A quiet day, for once. No meetings. No missions. No training. A day to spend however the team wanted.

Steve left his apartment early to attend one of the VCA events on Sam's invitation. Clint was assumedly the same place Natasha was, which was anyone's guess but probably causing trouble for someone in some form. The final member of their little team, nicknamed the HYDRA Clean-up Crew by the rest of the Avengers, was making the best of the day doing absolutely nothing.

Outside the air was starting to fade into the faint chill of a late autumn afternoon but the slanted sun flooded the apartment in golden light. The Captain's bedroom was the best place of any he could think to catch it. The apartment, thanks to he, Clint and Natasha's persistent work, was tactically secure. The only thing they hadn’t been able to change was Steve's habit of hiding a spare key under conspicuous objects within the vicinity of his door. They had gotten rid of the brick, a doormat, a statue of a dog with a welcome sign in it's mouth and a boot cleaner shaped like a hedgehog. The current target for removal was a small pot of flowers growing on the landing window sill. As soon as anyone would make move or mention of ridding the shared landing of it the Captain would fix them with the now infamous 'Just don't.' look and the flowers won another few days of safety.

So there he was. Sprawled over Steve's bed in track pants and a top emblazoned with a ridiculous chibi version of Captain America himself, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking, letting the gears of his mind spin free and idle. Doing nothing.

How rare it was to do nothing. It was not the waiting between actions, the lull of fatigue and recovery after a mission. It was what it was, and that was nothing.

The room was arguably baking in the powerful afternoon sunlight but he relished the heat. The feel of the sun soaking into skin more familiar with ice was something he never passed up the chance to bask in. The rest of the team would surrender sunny vantage points to him without argument save for the odd dogpile. Clint liked to joke he was en route to becoming a Dorito on level of tanning or suggest he use his arm as a tanning mirror to make sure he turned 'an even shade of orange all over'. The metal in question was shielded from the heat, tucked under the pillow he was cradling around his head and his other arm rested on his gently moving chest. Easy breaths pulsed like a gentle, almost noiseless tide. 

One could be forgiven for mistaking the man as being asleep. Anyone who felt sure in that assumption would be dangerously wrong. 

Beneath the façade of rest the Soldier's mind was alert. Sleep was often difficult and broken. He had more success with a state of torpor where his body idled but his mind remained sharp. Even from there it had taken effort to stop every little thing ripping him from rest into the offensive but process had been made. It wasn't the constant readiness of the years before, driven by whatever toxins HYDRA kept him running hard and fast on. It had taken months for their effect to ebb. Minute flutters behind his heavy lids were no REM-triggered reactions but unseeing eyes darting towards sounds, a faint noise drifting in from the street. He heard not just the ambient noise of the apartment around him but small sounds of outside. 

Noises like the tumbler of the door turning over.

 

\----

 

He couldn't believe it.

A key. A key right by the door, plain to see as the flowerpot it was hidden under. Captain America, the greatest hero in history, leaving a spare key outside for any and all. How naïve. How _American._ It made him grin.

All the talk, all the pomp, all the others who chided him for even considering taking the contract on Steve Rogers- now proving nothing more then a senile puppet for some now-dead government wing. What fools they would be! In truth it was more of a dare then a contract but anything with a downpayment was a contract as far as he was concerned. The man tweaked the collar of his purple and gold combat jacket in a nervous, excited habit; rolling the key in his hand a moment before stepping up to open the door. He had to make this one to remember. It had to be grand! It had to be dramatic! 

He could hardly contain his excitement as the key slid into the lock and turned with no resistance.

 

\----

 

Bucky's head raised from the bed, still lost in warm glow of his pseudo nap. He heard the door swing open and someone pad inside, followed by the click of the door closing behind them. _Steve's back early._

The man rolled over onto his chest and began to settle again, yawning mightily and taking the chance to stretch. If Steve wanted his bed back he'd have to fight him or share. Bucky froze mid-stretch and was suddenly wide awake. He didn't hear the familiar noise of Steve's jacket, smell Barton's cologne that he swore the archer wore just to jibe him, and the pace wasn't the felid movement of Romanov. Nor did Sam call to announce himself as he'd taken to once being jumped by alarmed ex-Soviets as he let himself in early for a dinner.

_Intruder_. 

The Soldier stood soundlessly and slipped out of the bedroom. He passed by a knife placed strategically on the underside of a small hall table. He did not need weapons armed as he was. If he did, there were countless others readily available in the apartment.

He came up alongside the doorway into the lounge and stilled, pressing himself into the shadow there as the intruder made their way along the hall.

The Soldier waited.

 

\----

 

Now he was inside, he could hardly choose what to do. He hadn't given much thought into the act itself. Would he shoot the mark? Or defeat him in a thrilling hand-to hand exchange? He should have brought a knife, but then again knives were so messy. The man wandered down the hall and into the lounge, taking his time to enjoy the accomplishment. He'd done what many feared to do and infiltrated the lair of America's posterboy.

_Though,_ He noted silently, _The grandeur of the apartment is rather lacking._

There were more books then he thought he would find but most shocking of all was the sleek desktop on the table and what appeared to be some kind of touch-sensetive pad. It must be the live-in's. There was no way some senile 95-year-old relic could figure out modern technology.

_Aha!_ He spied the stack of vinyl by a record player. _That's more like it._

He trailed his fingers over the table as he peered around, trying to pick a really dramatic place for ambush.

 There was plenty of options but a sad lack of curtains. Shame. It would be dramatic to come bursting through curtains, backlit by the setting sun as the fabric billowed around him, falling upon his shocked and awed mark with no remorse. His eyes lingered on the book case. There was perhaps room to squeeze in on top of it but that wasn't very impressive- he'd have to wriggle out of it and would probably kill the old man just by falling on him. The man considered the doorway leading off to elsewhere in the apartment for a brief second, but hiding in the bedrooms and bathrooms was for common criminals. He was an assassin! He was above waiting in some closet filled with clothing or in some leaking shower.

He sighed and turned from the hall. _I suppose the kitchen?_

\----

 

The intruder stepped into view, swaggering around the lounge. In an instant the Soldier saw all he needed to know.

He moved with no hint of injury but the tilt of his chin and faint sneer on his face gave him an air of haughtiness. The man's gaudily coloured fatigues sat too freely for him to be wearing body armour of any kind. There was no padding to be seen on him, arms or knees. A single oversized pistol rested in a holster on his thigh- so big it could only be a Desert Eagle. The shape of the holster told him it there was no attachments. The figure was absent of any hint of blades, visible or concealed, but they could not be discounted.

_Assassin._ Frigid anger bloomed within him but the Soldier made no move.

 Suddenly the man's gaze turned to his doorway. The Soldier tensed, his metallic arm hidden behind his figure so as not to betray him. Long seconds passed. The man seemed to ponder the doorway before sighing and turning away, ignorant of his watcher. 

An opening. The Soldier struck.

 

\-----

 

Something hit him from the side. Hard.

 

The man's breath exploded from him in an expletive. "Merde!"

He tried to twist away from his attacker, dropping a shoulder to initiate a flip that would throw them. It worked but only by half. There was a grip like a metal vice about his chest he couldn't shake.

He thudded into the floor and his attacker followed.

The Soldier felt the man's shoulder drop. He wasn't going to loose him that easily. He threw himself forward into the would-be flip and sent the two of them into the floor. Once there he braced himself and drove his left shoulder against the other man, face fixed in a silent snarl. The intruder writhed furiously beneath him.

_What is he doing?_ The Soldier wondered. His pin was solid, there was no way- _What?!_

Suddenly the man slipped out of his gaudy jacket, got a knee under his hip and attempted to bridge.

 The Soldier was stunned for a mere second but recovered instantly. The upward movement was enough for him to hook a leg under him, switch his grip and roll the man over. The motion brought his legs up and before the assassin could gather himself, he gave a mighty kick.

Books fell in a cascade around the man, knocked loose by his collision with the shelving. An arm reached through the falling books, took him by his collar and hauled him clean off the ground. His hands scrabbled wildly as he tried to break the grip but froze as he took in the nature of the limb holding him. A gaze glacial in colour and edge fixed itself on the man as he took in the biomechanic arm. The plates shone like mirrors in the harsh afternoon sun but there was no warmth in the arm. The Soldier regarded his capture with an air of extreme distaste.

"Name." He growled.

His captive took a moment to respond, seemingly just noticing the Soldier's attire. Never had he ever thought anyone could look so menacing in a shirt depicting a tiny, exuberant Captain America. But if anyone could do so, it was the Winter Soldier. It worked- the man was terrified.

The Soldier lifted him another few inches higher and tried again. "Comment t'appelles-tu?"

"Va te faire foutre!" The man spat in fear.

"Bon alors." The Soldier replied.

The cybernetic tendons whirred menacingly and the Soldier tightened his grip. The assassin feared his end but a phone suddenly appeared in the man's other hand.

The Soldier snapped a picture of the would-be assassin's alarmed face and sent it to Natasha via Snapchat. The application had been the bane of his existence at first but it could be used tactically with surprising effectiveness.

 

\----

 

Somewhere else entirely, Natasha's phone gave a bright cheep, drawing her attention.

 She opened Snapchat to find a waiting message from _'Soviet Coldfingers'._ A very alarmed looking man was held aloft by the familiar coolly glinting left arm of her teammate. Sharp eyes took in his features, the look of sheer horror and the disarray of Steve's apartment behind him. _Broke in. Know him?_ Read the caption plastered over the man's alarmed face. She shot off a reply.

 The woman nudged the man beside her, prompting a sharp glance from behind violet tinted glasses. "Wrap up, we're out of here."

 Seconds later the pair were gone with not a trace behind them.

 

\----

 

The Soldier's phone vibrated sharply. He ignored it. He was busy.

Seeing a slim window of escape, the panicked assassin had heaved against the Soldier's arm. He braced against the iron grip, swung his hips and tried to get a leg around his neck. The sudden shift in weight made the Soldier buckle sideways and his captive saw a fleeting moment of hope.

 

It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

 

In a display of brutal skill, the Soldier reefed his arm downwards as if to throw the man, ducking and heaving his shoulders without releasing his grip. The assassin found his leg soaring clear over his assailant's head. The momentum continued as the Soldier dove downwards into a side roll that drove his hard shoulder into the assassin's ribs with a crunch. The vicelike grip released his collar as the Soldier finished his roll and swung into mount.

 

The cool metal of his forearm rested threateningly across the man's throat, waiting for any excuse to crush it. The man on the floor only moaned softly through teeth bared in a grin of pain and offered no further resistance.

The Soldier relinquished the mount but remained sitting atop the assassin's chest. Now free to do so, he checked for Natasha's reply.

A blurred shot of what looked to be a cityscape, taken as if moving at a high speed, and the caption: _Not yet. Heading home._

Inverting the camera, he replied with a shot of him mantling his catch. _No rush. Secure._

 His captive struggled feebly under him for a moment but a shift in the Soldier's seat sent shards of pain radiating through the man's chest. He gave up moving and lay still.

 

He was lost in a world of pain and terror. This was the ghost of his profession, a phantom of grandest scale- the Winter Soldier! How he was still alive and not dead was only slightly more terrifying than being face to face with the tactical equivalent of the boogeyman.

_Surely he means to torture me!_ The man thought. _Why else would he keep me alive?_

"S'il vous plait," He hissed between his teeth. "If you mean to kill me, do so now! At least give me the honour-!" 

His plea was cut short into a pained sob as the Soldier dropped a hip. He had no interest in bargains. He did, however have a vested interest in discovering why his afternoon off had turned into an impromptu barfight.

 

\----

 

Steve drew his rather bare keyring from his pocket and slid the key into the deadlock. When there was no familiar click of the tumbler turning he paused. There was no noise from inside of the apartment and if he had any of his usual visitors, none of them would have left the door unlocked.

 His phone was in his hand instantly. _Sam, did I leave my sketchbook in your car?_

The Falcon's reply was just as fast. _Yes, I'll bring it up._

Having secured the nearest teammate for back-up, he opened the door slowly and with care lest anything be waiting for him on the other side.

The Captain slipped into the apartment and swung his shield from across his back.

 

"Buck?" He called quietly. His mind entertained fears that something had triggered a relapse in his friend, even when they had been so careful to establish and remove or avoid known triggers. Sometimes there was no helping it, only managing it. If that was the case, his call was probably soon to be answered by a knife thudding into the wall mere inches from his head.

No knife.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief but it was shortlived as he stepped into the lounge. It looked like a blizzard had hit it. Books, strewn across the floor. A gaudy jacket lay like a discarded rag. In the middle of it all, his very disgruntled looking friend sat astride a terrified intruder, cradling a mug of coffee in his hands. On the armchair beside him perched Natasha, looking equally annoyed and sporting her signature QuikClot brew. Both ex-Soviets fixed the Captain with glares that had killed lesser individuals.

 

"What is going on here?" He asked, not quite alarmed but definitely put-off.

"This would be a French assassin. Sent to kill you. Want to know how he got in?" Natasha purred dangerously quietly.

Steve lowered his shield apprehensively. That tone was never good coming from his teammate.

"Judging by the lack of broken glass," He began, "I'm going to say the door."

Natasha gave a curt nod of her head. "Correct. The front door. Would you like to know how?"

Bucky wordlessly held up a key without lessening his glowering. The man he was sitting on stifled a pained sob.

"The spare key." Steve winced.

 Any angry retort Natasha was about to release was cut off as the phone on her lap erupted.

 

_"For god's sake, Cap, could you warn me if you've got back-up inbound? I almost shot Wilson out of the fucking sky!"_ Clint snapped over loudspeaker.

Steve darted through the carpet of literature for the phone. "I'm sorry- is he alright?"

Natasha shot Bucky a look of resignation. Their friend had taken bullets for them but he was oblivious for those aimed at himself.

_"Yeah, man, I'm fine."_ Sam's slightly shaky voice joined Clint's. "What's this about some assassin breaking into your place with your spare key?"

"Yes, he did." The Captain rubbed his brow with a faint grimace of shame.

_"Man, we've talked about this."_ Sam's exasperation was as clear as the twin looks of icy ex-Soviet outrage fixed on Steve as he hung his head.

 

"He's right." Natasha said. "It was endearing Grandpa behavior at first, Rogers, but this shit has to stop."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Skype conversation with Snakefeathers. Thank skies for guard-dog ex-Soviets with reptilian tendencies!
> 
> Translation: French - English.  
> Merde - Shit.  
> Comment t'appelles-tu? - What is your name?  
> Va te faire foutre! - Go fuck yourself!  
> Bon alors. - Well then.   
> S'il vous plait - Please


End file.
